


Call you by my name

by Marco (darkgreenwater)



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: M/M, re-imagined from oliver's POV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:27:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21922888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkgreenwater/pseuds/Marco
Summary: Excerpts from the book re-imagined from Oliver's POV
Relationships: Oliver & Elio Perlman, Oliver/Elio Perlman
Comments: 5
Kudos: 23





	Call you by my name

Elio. That name. That face. That nose, those eyes, his hands, _his_ lips. I would have liked to, then, when we first shook hands. He couldn’t possibly know, yet I felt exposed as soon as his eyes met mine. Did he see through me this fast? This early on in our relationship, which didn’t yet dare to call itself by that name? I remember how eager his handshake was, despite him undoubtedly trying to conceal his enthusiasm. His face read like that of a bored librarian, or a student in his most dreaded class. He seemed nonchalant, tried but not quite succeeded to look careless, as if my presence didn’t mean anything to him at all. As if it was irrelevant that he had to give up his room for me, as if the electricity that shot from his hand into mine as we touched was accidental, or worse yet, not reserved for me but rather a common occurrence that he was already used to. As if I could be anyone, any stranger off the street. I had only just met this boy then but I had never felt that insignificant before. “Oliver.” I said and I flashed a smile despite my voice sounding cool. It wasn’t intentional but I didn’t want to take my tone of voice back, or soften it – let him know his attitude stung my ego. “Elio” came his reply, friendly but dull sounding. He was going to keep this act up – and it was no more than that, an act, which is why it hurt in the first place, that he pretended to feel nothing toward me because he so obviously did – and I went with it. I went with it all. Two can play this game, Elio. You know nothing about me. 

He took me on a tour around the house, then to town, and it was overwhelming. The new sounds, colors, smells, everything. There was so much to see and I was overcome with a sudden fear that the next six weeks might not be enough for me to take it all in, so when he asked to show me some old train taken over by gypsies, I had to decline: “Later. Maybe.” From the corner of my eye I caught a brief glance at his face and the disappointment was obvious on it. I, too, was disappointed – in myself for saying no, and in Elio for giving up so easily. Had he asked me just once more... But he didn’t, so I stayed quiet and moved on. We walked through small alleys that were lined with stones the color of sand, the echoes of our footsteps the only sounds coming from either of us. I didn’t talk because I had nothing to say; Elio didn’t because he was too busy pouting. _I would take you right here, right now, Elio, if I could_ , I wanted to scream. I wanted the stones to repeat my words so he would have to hear them over and over until their gravitas would be drilled into his stubborn head. I wanted him to know how the palm of my hand still burned from his touch, without him knowing it. I wished to tell him and have him forget my words immediately after. I changed the subject after his invitation. “I’d like to open up a bank account.” I chose to ignore his feeble attempt at making advances. We went there by bike and said nothing. I had nothing to talk about, but even if I had, I just didn’t want to make conversation. I was set on trying to hide my nervousness – had I as much as uttered just one word, I feared I’d have shattered right on the spot and blown my cover. 

I’m not too sure what it was then, in the beginning. Maybe I was curious because he tried so desperately to give me the cold shoulder, and I wanted to find out why. Maybe I was just enthralled by his beauty – the dark hair matched by dark eyes, undoubtedly Italian but with a hint of Jewish heritage that I came to spot soon after. Or maybe I was simply interested in what type of people I agreed to live with over the course of the following six weeks, though I was almost certain that a reason as simple as that could not be, in fact, my reasoning at all. 

I don’t remember much of the rest, other than the occasional small talk, that we’d stopped for drinks, that he went back to ignoring me as soon as we set foot in his house again. When we walked through the front door, I called “Later.” over my shoulder, not looking at him, and took a sharp turn to the right, going upstairs to get situated in my new room for the summer. I didn’t find out that it was his room until a few days later, when his father mentioned it to me in a very by-the-way-manner; We sat at the breakfast table and held a light conversation about my time here and what both our goals for our joint as well as our respective works would be, when he suddenly dropped the matter on me: “In fact, Elio’s room used to be my study before his birth! Of course now you have taken it over, so I hope that the spirit of my work from all those years ago lingers still and might enlighten you during your own thought process.” I was completely shocked. Just judging by the sheer size of the house I had assumed they’d have enough space for guest rooms. It would have never occurred to me that Elio should give up his room for anyone, much less for me. Besides, what did they have a guest house for if the guest wouldn’t stay in it? “So where does he stay, then?” I asked, trying to sound casual, as if I wasn’t too interested. But in truth, I don’t think the Pro would have cared either way. “In his grandfather’s room. Don’t worry, it’s routine. You’re not the first summer guest here, you know?” He smiled then, and it was strangely soft, as if he tried to ease my mind. I didn’t know what to do other than smile back and change the subject. 

On my third evening at the Pearlmans, we sat at the dinner table, Elio seated next to me, and he talked about Haydn’s _Seven Last Words of Christ_ . He spoke fast and excited, and I couldn’t help but watch as he went on and on, as if completely submerged in this world of Haydn; He smiled a bit here and there, just out of the corner of his mouth, whenever he stumbled over a part in his little speech that he particularly liked, and I sensed that he could lose himself in this topic if someone would just let him. I wanted to be that someone for him. I wanted to be that someone that let him fall headfirst into his thoughts and only climb back out once he was really ready to, I wanted to be the one to tell him “Go and think, Elio, and say it all out loud, I’m here, Elio, I’m listening, tell me everything”. After he had finished explaining his transcription, he caught me off-guard by suddenly turning his head to face me, as if he expected me to give my opinion on the matter all along but figured I would need his explicit permission to do so. I responded on instinct, the only way I knew how – my gaze turned into a glare, as if I was displeased by his words, and the blush that had begun to creep into his cheeks at once turned into the ashy color of blood loss. This stung him – I knew for certain it did, I could see it – and I regretted it at once. When I decided to treat him the way he’d treated me upon our first meeting, I didn’t intend for myself to hurt him like this. But part of me tried to convince my conscience, _He deserves it. He asked for your approval, maybe unknowingly so, but he asked all the same, and I promised not to give it to him. I promised myself, Elio. I know myself._

I’d spent weeks like this; justifying my every action towards him, all the little jabs, the recoveries, too, the hot-and-cold, by thinking that I cannot, absolutely must not betray myself. What would it make me if I forsake the only person I’m sure to have to live with for the rest of my life? Could I really give myself up like that, surrender to my own vices? _Yes, Elio, I could, if only you’d ask me once, and then once more after that, and I would forget myself for you._ Our conversation came to a stop, then, after the incident. For two days or so I didn’t dare speak to him out of that very fear of forgetting myself, and because I couldn’t look at him. I couldn’t acknowledge the disappointment in his eyes, the pain that he so unsuccessfully tried to mask whenever our glances met. I saw him in the hallway and quickly turned the other way, though I could feel his stare on my back. From my room – his room – I saw him walk out on the balcony to look over to the sea, the summer breeze gently moving the curls of his hair, and I wanted to keep looking and take in the sight, but I couldn’t bring myself to. I had to avert my eyes and read whatever I had in hand, or stare at the ceiling, or look anywhere but at the fatality that disguised itself as Elio. I decided I’d let things cool down, and give him a moment to recover before I would resume talking to him. It is now, years later, that I realize maybe I wasn’t so much trying to give him space as that I tried to give it to myself; I, too, had to recover from my own coldness toward him. It hurt me as well, to a degree at least, and I didn’t know why. Perhaps it was misplaced guilt, or shame, but it died down soon enough. So I asked “Care to go jogging with me?” a few days later. He seemed to think about it for a moment, though I knew he feigned the motion and had probably already thought of an answer before I’d even posed the question; He shook his head dismissively. “No, not really.”  
“ Let’s swim, then.”  
“Sure.” He shrugged and gathered his things without paying any more attention to me. He left the house not really waiting for me, and he might as well have gone alone to the beach; it didn’t matter to him whether I trailed along or not. I was merely the one to suggest his afternoon activity, and he made sure that I understood. 


End file.
